Squirrel

I stopped!
There, on almost dead grass turning to cracked straw in mid-autumn, I saw the squirrel, in fluid strokes, bound between tree trunks, gathering in winter search for nuts, dirty and tasteless. To entertain my eyes, a distraction: Its tail twitching in epileptic fit while busy paws scavenge.

-Rachel Johnson, October 11,1994

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The Contortionist is a private literary publication by Fish Hook Press.
© Rachel Green, 2001

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